


Short Stories

by growup_thatbeautiful



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bad Writing, Light Angst, Love Stories, Multi, Sad with a Happy Ending, Short Stories, Some angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:21:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29383383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/growup_thatbeautiful/pseuds/growup_thatbeautiful
Summary: a bunch of short stories that i’ve written over time. :))
Kudos: 1





	1. Watercolor

On the wall outside of the laundromat there’s a side full of graffiti. The city stopped trying to get rid of it a while ago, opting to spend money on something more important. This wall of graffiti is known in my town as watercolor wall.

The first time I visited there I was with my friends, and they just wanted to go to make fun of all the kids hanging out there. Of course, I agreed, not wanting to cause any problems. We got there right as the sun was slipping behind the highway. I still get blown away by its combination of beauty and wrongness. It’s beauty came from the thousands of strokes made by hundreds of searching souls. and the wrongness that no one's art would last on it. 

The art that’s on the wall changed regularly, people painting over and adding to the original pictures, but there’s one thing that stays the same. A few simple words, reflecting in the tears eyes of those who went there. “I was here.”

I’ve heard that it was the first thing that was ever on the wall. My friend Max thinks that it was out there by some i forseen power of the higher being. Personally, I don’t really care where it came from. What if we find out and are disappointed by who it was? What if the person who did it was just doing with no deeper meaning? Regardless, it’s better not to know. It doesn’t matter who started it, it matters what it means to other people. 

There are a lot of stories around town about people who will go to Watercolor Wall just so they remember that they matter. People who, before they went to the wall, didn’t know if they wanted to keep going. I don’t think any of them are true, but it’s a nice thought. Sometimes it’s hard to have nice thoughts, so anything helps.

I don’t know when exactly the last time I went there was. I don’t live in that town anymore. I moved to a bigger city, new people and a different Watercolor Wall. I’m sure every town has one, but I don’t know where it is. Only people who need it are able to find it, and I’m older now. I have a son, who knows where the Watercolor wall is. I’ve seen the look in his eyes that I used to get when I came home from visiting the wall. The look in his eyes means he knows that’s he’s more than just alive. A look that means he knows what it’s like to exist. 

I used to need to go to Watercolor Wall because I was scared I was scared of losing control of my life. People go there for a lot of reasons, but once you’ve found the answers you never go back for the same reason. It would be sad, but over the years I’ve lost the urge to go there. . I don’t have everything figured out, far from it in fact, but I know what I’m supposed to be doing. I won’t go back until it’s not enough anymore and I have new problems or old ones return, and not the kind of problem you talk to anyone about. The kind that’s so deep within you that there are no words. Then I guess I’ll move to a new town, with a new Watercolor wall. I might even paint on the words that got me so far. Or I could write new ones, something entirely my own to give. Something like “End poetically, but live life like a quote.” But no matter what I wrote on the wall, people will know I lived, and I fought, and I laughed, and I sobbed.

I was here.


	2. June 26th

He sits by the window, his head turned towards the streets rolling by, the weight on his shoulders carried by a red bus. He’s has a rough day, and he knows the time on this bus won’t help him clear his head. In the past being alone with his thoughts hasn’t always been the best idea. When he gets to his apartment his husband will help him figure it out. He could make all those thoughts, all those insecurities, go away with just a smile. It’s still crazy to think that he’s allowed to call the man he’s spending the rest of his life his husband.

He lets his thoughts wander against his better judgment. His life doesn’t feel normal. The normal he knows is hiding in closets, no pun intended, and hoping beyond God that no one finds him. Even the ones who would accept him, because good intentions only get you so far when it comes to things like this. It hurt that it was even an option that people wouldn’t accept him for something as trivial as his sexuality. The thought of people back then finding out about him now makes him sick. Years later. He thought once he moved away their words would leave, let him be the one to bring himself for , not other people. He thought he could make himself forget.

But they didn't know, or at least they didn’t care, that their hate filled words would impact him more than the people who said them. He doubt they even remembered what they said to him. Hurting people for being different than their cookie-cutter ideas was so normal for them that he was just a point from a long line of young people with scars.

That wasnt even the hardest part. He could deal with people saying things to try and change him, he knew it wasn’t going to work. One of the hardest things to remember is people fighting on his television, deciding whether he could love the man he wanted. As if it was their choice to begin with, as if they had any right to chose who he’s allowed to get married to. 

He lets out a long sigh and focuses on the song playing in his headphones. It used to be his mother’s favorite, and he can’t seem to let it go. It could still be her favorite, he wouldn’t know. They haven’t spoken in five years. Maybe it’s been six, he tried to tell himself but the truth is he knows exactly how long. Call him sentimental. Call him weak. Its nothing he hasn’t told himself. 

He remembers everything from the day he told his parents no matter how hard he tried to forget. He was wearing a hoodie that he threw out a few months later, not being able to stand it. It was blue and it has pink flowers on the sleeves. He still knows that he was wearing glasses because they were fogged up from the tears he shed. The tears his parents caused him to shed. Jesus, his parents. 

The hardest part had been going into the conversation, knowing that when it ended he wouldn’t have a family anymore. He was going to be alone. He had been so fucking scared. Before he had the conversation with his parents he had already packed his bags. He was certain he knew how it was going to go, and he had been right. All men are created equal, until they decide to love each other, right?

For all the bad times that his memories recall, there are the good ones too. Having his boyfriend at the time hold him all night whenever his thoughts caught up with him. Getting kneed in the face by his husband when the announcement came out that they could be with each other legally. His husband was so excited that he forgot about his head resting in his lap and he stood up, apologizing with profound words. He can’t remember another time when he felt such pure, unadulterated joy. He had waited for his whole life, longer, to be able to call the man holding his face with gentle hands and tear streaked cheeks his husband. 

But you can’t have strong positive emotions without a crash. Later that week he felt such resentment towards all the people who had halted the process, stopping him from something they had no right to control. He got proposed to that very same year, his husband down on one knee with shaking hands, his face framed by falling autumn leaves. Seeing his husband, his husband, waiting at the end of a long aisle, hastily wiping away tears and giving him a smile that held in it the rest of their lives together. They had both been dressed in white, mocking the angels. Not that he was one to believe that his love was a sin.

He’s almost at his stop, and then he can go home into a warm embrace, a loving smile, and a person, a man, he can lean on. 

He wished he could say he never wanted to be anyone different. He couldn’t. There were times, there still are times, when he wants to see his little sister who never had a chance to stop anything that happened those years ago. He misses singing along to The Beach Boys in the back of his moms’ minivan. He misses making fun of his dad for his favorite movie, Clueless. (He hasn’t watched that in years) He knows he can never have that again, but that was their choice. Not his. He has to remember that. 

He’s tried to stop blaming himself for who he is. Blaming God is easier, but he knows there’s no one to blame. He loves who he loves. It’s one of the underlying facts of human existence, it’s not something he can change. They can say it’s not real, that he’s being dramatic, he’s making it up, but if his sexuality isn’t real then it doesn’t that mean no one’s is? There’s a natural balance in life, he’s learned. He can look up the definition of love all he wants, he can ask everyone he knows what love means, but there isn’t one definition, isn’t one true meaning of love. It’s whatever he wants it to be. It’s what he has with is husband, his love. 

He walks into his front door. Maybe he’s imagining it, but it’s warm. Comforting. He knows that when he looks up he’ll see a smiling face sitting on a mantle. 

A soft “How was your day?” greets him. He can tell from the voice that his partner knows it was a rough day. It’s okay, they both have them. They’ll cry, they’ll hold each other close. An endless cycle of pain and joy. 

But that’s what life is. They can’t let it consume them, no matter how much it hurts. If they let themselves go down there’s no chance of getting back up. 

Deeply unhappy thoughts breed joyful reunions with death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> proud of that last line


	3. dance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i’m pissed at my whole family and i just saw dunkirk which is fucking awesome. have a short story

“Get off of my team. You can’t be here anymore.” The words don’t hurt less than I thought they would. Still, he doesn’t get to see me cry. That’s for people who are worth it. It’s a good thing to tell yourself in order to stop crying. Crying is for watching Romeo + Juliet and doing math with your dad at the kitchen table. It’s for laughing with your friends and freaking out over a test. It’s not for getting kicked off of the softball team because of a homophobic coach.   
I knew it was going to happen. He joked about it, casually referring to sins and abominations like he was a friend of God. People like him are dangerous, always have been and always will be. That’s just how it is.   
It didn’t stop me from caring, though. Beyond all odds, I still wanted him to like me, appreciate me, see value in me. Some shallow, beaten part of me thought that I could change his mind. Make him see past what he thought God said, give him a chance to be kind, or, if all things go south, give him a chance to hurt. Because no matter how sad you are, anger is always going the first emotion. And once that’s gone, all you’re left with is burnout and regrets.   
I go through the motions. Put a ball in my glove, let it keep its shape while it’s in the bag. Take off your spikes, put on the turf shoes. Shoulder your bag and walk out. Except.  
Except it can’t be that easy, not really. I know they’re watching me leave, emotions clouding their faces. Disgust, horror, sympathy, pity. But not a single one of them walks out with me. They’ll text me later, say how bad they feel, and I’ll know they mean it. They aren’t cruel, they’re just human.I don’t blame them. Softball is all some of them have, and the rest of them have too many connections to get out now. I basically lost all of those as soon as I told them about me. It’s how we work. We were a team, and one of us fell down too far. My fall was just calculated. On purpose.   
And as much it’s a pain in my ass to play softball, it’s also pretty damn fun. I have a team. We laugh as we work out together and encourage the best each other. We know that Bella doesn’t like to dance and Pepper’s prone to anxiety attacks. We all hate running and love catching pop flies. Fortunately for me it wasn’t my ticket out of here. I can find another way.   
I thought for a while it was worth it. Suck it up, ignore the comments, be part of something good. But it wasn’t. Every “good job” triggered a sense of “you would say that if you knew.” It made things worse. Anxiety was up. What if he found out? What was going to happen? Is there a way to lose everything from this one insight?   
Apparently, yes. Walk away with my head high. Open the car door. Put the keys in with shaking hands. Take a deep breath. Drive home.   
Driving means wandering minds. The bus rides to games, singing along to songs I’ve never heard and talking about the cute guy we just passed. On the way back, stopping for food and taking selfies. Instagram posts and sleep deprived talks.   
I don’t play sad music. No, this isn’t a sad occasion. Painful and angry, yes, but not sad. I haven’t hit that point yet.   
I'm nowhere close to the horror stories you hear. The nightmares of abuse and terror that some of us have to face. Still, I've learned not to disregard myself. It’s no easy thing, coming out, no matter who you are. The first time I did it in person I couldn’t breathe. At least this time I was sure of the reaction.   
Get out of the car. Check to see if anyone’s home. They aren’t. Thank God. I blast my music, not to drown out thoughts but to amplify them. Movement helps me feign self-confidence, so I twirl and sidestep around the kitchen. I normally pretend to be self assured, so people like me better. Funny how that works out.   
Think about it too much and I freak out. Think about it not enough and I disassociate. There’s a fine line that I’m balancing on, a teacup on the edge of an unmade bed, waiting to fall, fragility stopping the air from moving. I know when I go to sleep tonight, if it can even be called sleep, I’ll stay up for hours. For now, though, I’ll dance in the kitchen.


End file.
